Do I dream?
All small doors, all big hopes.
Do I find in my brain the stuff,
The fungal produce of dead matter?

That tiny bit of life that appears of nowhere,
Crawling like a current, sparking like a lightning.

Looking through old thoughts,
Old cabinets filled with younger clothes.

There is nothing there that could ease the pain,
Of a mutated little left hand.

Disorganization in a way that is unique,
That doesn’t matter if your satisfaction fails.

Can you bring yourself to look at the world,
Then at you,
At the world,
And back?

What do you see?

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